Gallant Show And Promise
by Gaslight
Summary: A prequel of sorts to "Passages." Myrhil's 13, her brother's 17, and Boromir sees the siblings' strengths and weaknesses. Merry Christmas, Johanna!


For Johanna, who is always happy to see Boromir. Merry Christmas!

This is a prequel of sorts to _Passages_. Boromir comes to Lebennin on horse & army business, and plays big brother of sorts to two fractious siblings. In the meager timeline of _Passages_, this is the visit of Boromir's that ends shortly before Larhend, Myrhil's reckless brother, tries to ride a half-broken horse, is thrown, and is killed. That event was referred to in an early chapter in the story.

**Gallant Show And Promise**

"…hollow men, like horses hot at hand,  
Make gallant show and promise of their mettle…"

-- Brutus, _Julius Caesar_ (Act IV, Sc. ii)

_Lebennin_

_3003, Third Age_

_In the shadows of the Ered Nimrais, along the River Gilrain_

"I'm not invited, am I?"

Larhend tossed a small tin cup into his saddlebag and buckled the flap securely. He looked over at his sister, who stood in the doorway of their shared room, and smiled with insincere regret. "'fraid not, brat. Boromir made no mention of you."

"You needn't be so smug about it," Myrhil sniffed. "It's only a camping trip into the hills. I've already been there many a time." As if to emphasize her indifference, she slouched against the door jamb, her lanky, significant height sprawling ungracefully.

Larhend wondered if she would eventually be able to meet him directly in the eye. Certainly at the pace she was growing, it was a distinct possibility. The prospect of fine gowns on that scarecrow frame nearly made him burst out laughing.

"And," she added, oblivious to his imaginings, "I make no fuss over my birthday, but you have to have only the best!"

"That's the difference between thirteen and seventeen, little one," he told her, his satisfaction undimmed. "Four more years, and you'll be able to demand the moon as well. Although," he added, "I doubt that Boromir would submit to playing dolls with you at any age."

Only the barest flicker of her eye indicated that Myrhil had heard him. "Boromir only came because he had horse business with Father," she said smoothly. "Certainly wasn't to see you!"

"And you forget that he and Father have known each other since Boromir was younger than you are now. He trained Boromir, taught him all he knows when it comes to arms and battle. Think on that, sis! How many other families have the gift of the Heir of Gondor's personal love and loyalty? We're not mere vassals. Treasure it."

Myrhil wrinkled her nose. "I think I like you better when you're arguing with Father about riding that damned half-broken horse. This talk of love and loyalty simply doesn't suit you."

Larhend grabbed a discarded dirty sock from his untidy bed, balled it up, and threw. Myrhil ducked it easily enough, but glared at him all the same. "I might have caught the plague from that thing!" she accused.

Larhend grabbed his saddle bag and ambled over to the door where Myrhil still blocked it with her casual pose. "Move aside," he said, and poked her stomach. "Boromir's no doubt waiting."

"Well, I had best move then, hmm?" she said, still not budging.

Larhend paused, and looked at his young, awkward sister. Her dark hair was in her preferred limbo between feminine grace and male efficiency. Cropped neck-length, it was gathered into a full and unruly mass. The tie had come somewhat loose and hanks now hung on either side of a sun-bronzed face streaked with dirt. Her boots were caked with damp earth, and her fingernails were dirty crescents peering from her crossed, judgmental arms.

"Mother will be after you if you don't get back to the garden," Larhend said. "The weeds won't pull themselves."

"I'll be thinking of you when I rip out a particularly nasty one," she retorted.

Larhend laughed and flicked the end of her nose with his finger. "I'm flattered. Now out of my way, brat."

Myrhil reluctantly straightened and Larhend slipped past her. "If you but touch one of my things, I'll know," he declared ominously as he trudged towards the front door.

"Can't swear to that," she called, following him. "Mother'll set me to cleaning it, now that you won't be underfoot for a few days."

"You cleaned it last spring," Larhend complained, pausing at the door. "It don't need no-- Ow!"

Laenilas gave her son another, lighter cuff on the head. "Mind your speech next time," she said, turning back to the smoked meat that lay spread out before her on the table. She stashed a handful of strips each in two bags and handed them to Larhend. "Speak well when you are out there with the Steward's son. If you are serious about joining the Tower Guard, you cannot be an ignorant lump."

Myrhil bit her lip to prevent a giggle from escaping, instead contenting herself with a mocking look of reproach for her brother. It did not escape Laenilas' attention.

"Snigger all you like, children," she said, "but you _will_ appreciate my peculiar attachment to propriety if you want to rise through the ranks, Larhend, and you want to be more than a stall mucker, Myrhil."

Such lectures were frequent, but always chastening. It was easy to slip into casual, bucolic manners. Minas Tirith was a distant point on a map for the siblings; they had never seen the city that lay wrapped around a mountain, had never witnessed the Tower of Ecthelion as either glittering beacon or stolid sentinel. It was a mysterious place, given shape and life only by the stories of their father, Gorhend, who had served as a sergeant for over four decades before withdrawing to the plains of Lebennin to raise horses for Gondor's army. Laenilas, a sharp-featured, mature Rose of Gondor who had as much royal Rohirric blood in her veins as Gondorian, also had her share of vivid memories of the city ruled and kept safe by the Hurin line.

Yet despite this wealth of parental knowledge, it was the heir to the Hurins who made this unseen, distant city so vivid and compelling to the two siblings. Boromir, son of Denethor, was only twenty-four, yet already he embodied everything young Larhend hoped to become and Myrhil secretly adored.

There was hero worship aplenty in this small corner of the realm.

Larhend gave his mother an apologetic look and appeared genuinely contrite. "I will do my best."

"That is all I expect of you."

Myrhil saw her brother's jaw set in grim determination, the previous air of an inconsequential outing now stripped away. It was vastly important, and Larhend knew it. If he was to ever serve in Gondor's army, under Boromir's direct leadership or another's, he needed to make his quality known.

"See me off?" he asked Myrhil, gesturing outside.

Myrhil skipped through the open door and was about to bound off the porch when the sight of Boromir, already mounted and waiting, quickly checked her gangly lope.

All trappings of heir and Captain-General had been laid aside for this friendly enterprise. The journey from Minas Tirith had been similarly unobtrusive and humble, with nothing on his person to proclaim him the Steward's son. Had Myrhil not known who he was, he would have seemed no different from the travelers who sometimes stopped at their home for rest and food passing to points east and west. Yet for all this lack of glitter and gold, Myrhil thought the picture he presented was no less magnificent by their absence.

Looking at him, she felt the urge to squirm self-consciously, her gawky physique no different than Larhend's at the same age, but entirely expected in an adolescent boy. Never before had she seen a woman of the court, but she had heard enough to know they were creatures of silks, velvets, and lace with creamy skin, soft hands, and hair that shimmered like the Anduin on a spring day. At thirteen, Myrhil felt as distant from those grand ladies as a stargazer from the objects of his devotion. What a grubby little savage she must look like!

The garden filth that clung to her seemed oppressive, making her skin itch as an embarrassed flush crept up her neck to nest on her cheeks. He was so fine, used to fine things and people.

"Good morning, Myrhil," Boromir said, smiling.

She nodded, her head executing the gesture as gracefully as a stumble. "Mornin'."

Larhend moved past her, deliberately giving her an ungentle nudge as if to remind her of their mother's admonishment at gentle speech.

"Good morning," she amended, unconsciously clasping her hands as she approached. "You slept well?"

"Very! I found an extra pillow and blanket on my bed. I daresay the thoughtfulness was yours."

Larhend snickered softly as he tossed his saddlebag over his mount and secured it. Myrhil heard it and cursed silently as she felt her flush deepen.

"It was the least I could do since you're bunking in the barn with the others," she mumbled.

"No burden, that," Boromir said, his smile resplendent. "Two I had already met. Your father has a keen eye for culling my ranks."

It was said without resentment or malice. Gorhend had the sanctioned habit of relieving Gondor's forces of those whose hearts were not fully devoted to battle, but could serve well in other capacities. The raising and tending of horses was of paramount importance and it gave those of less staunch hearts but able hands a way to serve their country and preserve their honor.

"I apologize for stealing your brother away from you," he went on. Then, leaning forward in his saddle, he added in a conspiratorial manner, "But if you are anything like Faramir used to be, seeing a beastly elder brother leave for even a day is cause for celebration."

Boromir's jesting manner divided Myrhil. He was speaking to her as he would a child and she knew she could expect no less. Despite her rather onerous duties around home and barn, she was still barely out of short dresses, were she compelled to even wear such things. Even so, she was proud of her age -- not every child could claim to have lived to that milestone -- and condescension irked her considerably.

Still, it was preferable to being ignored completely.

"I would actually rather stay with him," she said, feeling quite bold at making such a pronouncement. "You know, to keep an eye on him."

Boromir grinned and looked at Larhend as the youth barked a laugh sarcastic and incredulous.

"I sense he thinks he can get by without your aid," Boromir said placidly, but Myrhil thought his tone was not entirely dismissive.

Larhend answered with an inarticulate sound of emphatic agreement, then added, "Of course if you want to cook and keep the camp clean, you're welcome to come along, Myrhil."

She glared at him. "I hope the bugs eat you alive, Larhend!" Then, apologetically to Boromir, "May your part of the trip be pleasant."

He chuckled and beckoned for Myrhil to come closer, which she did with only a passing reluctance at appearing too eager to do so. As she drew up to him, she detected the strong scent of horses, hay, and honed steel. It was a tantalizing blend of the familiar and the strange.

"Do you think this trip will be a disaster?" he asked her. "You know your brother better than I, and I cannot think of a better informer than a sister."

"You have no sisters, Boromir," she said, "so how do you know what we are like?"

Boromir nodded in elaborate thoughtfulness. "You have a point! But I have often wondered, so indulge me if you would." He laid a gloved hand on her head and ruffled her hair.

Flustered, she looked over at Larhend in search of distraction and immediately smiled. No matter how angry she got, or how much he vexed her, whenever he was the subject of conversation or observation, her warmth and love for her brother increased hundredfold when she beheld him. He was her brother, yes, but also her one link to a life that he would enjoy in person yet she could only experience through tales and letters. He would serve his country through deeds solid and brave while she...

Like her mother, she would no doubt marry one like him and birth the next generation of Gondor's defenders. Noble, even necessary, but not what she wanted.

She swallowed past the lump that had formed in her throat and turned her gaze upwards again. "He wants to be like you," she said softly.

Boromir's smile diminished only slightly, the earlier mirth transforming into thoughtful understanding. He cast a sidelong glance at Larhend, who was now out of sight on the other side of his horse. The boy grunted nearly as loud as his mount as he tugged on the cinch straps, and he arranged his saddle bag and bedroll with as much martial precision he could muster from his secondhand experience.

Taking advantage of Larhend's preoccupation, Boromir asked, "And do you think he will be?"

Myrhil wanted to be unhesitating and affirm he would, but she recalled her brother's bouts of hot, stubborn temper and his bull-headed insistence on tackling tasks that required more than simple determination, often the only weapon in his arsenal.

Her hesitation was too prolonged; Boromir straightened in his saddle, his brow creasing in regret, but settling into resolve. Far from thinking she had damaged her bother and his chances to sway Boromir to look upon him as recruiting material, she sensed that Boromir had instead noted it as one would demerits for any private: expected imperfections, but not terminal faults.

Or perhaps she was simply relying on her fanciful imaginings of the depths of charity from which the Heir of Gondor often drew his decisions.

"So, Myrhil, you comin'?"

She was unable to further assure Boromir about her brother. Larhend's attention was now fully engaged, and he was sitting upon his horse most splendidly. Were he and Boromir wearing armor, she would have assumed they were riding forth to war or a patrol, rather than battling mosquitoes and cook pans.

She reached out a tentative hand and scratched the neck of Boromir's stallion, smiling in surprised glee when it began to twist its head this way and that, curling its lip as some elusive and forgotten itch was relieved.

Myrhil ventured a shy glance upward at Boromir, wondering if Larhend's invitation was written upon his face as well, however lightly.

It was not. In its place was a budding impatience to get started, a dawning air that, despite this being a trip for pleasure, it would be in short supply and always an afterthought. Larhend's own joy was becoming more muted by the minute. They both looked ready to meet a solemn duty, but not one that had been foisted upon them.

Myrhil stuffed her hands deep into her pockets and backed away, her shoulders squared rigidly.

"No, thank you, Larhend," she said with a careless shrug. "Like I said, I've been many times. The garden needs weeding. Our room needs cleaning." She summoned a smile, weak and unconvincing.

There was nothing to add to that. Her misery was plain, her acceptance of it half-hearted at best. For the next several days, they would know how she passed her time as she would know theirs.

Boromir turned his stallion away with a slight tug on the reins. It responded immediately, as did Larhend who prodded his own horse into a walk with a click of his tongue.

Myrhil was glad to see their backs. Her shoulders relinquished their stiff posture and slumped in shamed relief. Kicking sluggishly at the dust, she turned towards the house.

What to do next? What to do first? What mattered any of it? The weeds would always grow again, and faster than before! The room would always get cluttered with pieces of tack and Larhend's unfinished whittling projects. Larhend would accomplish something real in the coming days, whereas she would have hers to do all over again. And again.

She was not ignorant of the routines of martial life. Her father's stories, as fanciful as some were, always held the same details about making or striking camp, caring for weapons, armor and mail, foraging and procuring. Day in and day out, but…it was not worrying about the dandelions taking over the carrots. There were entirely different species of stultifying boredom.

"Myrhil!"

She turned around, her hands still jammed in her pockets.

Boromir had turned his stallion back up the vague road that led from their farm to the route to Pelargir. Larhend was not with him, but instead continuing down the road at an ambling walk.

He reined in his horse a short distance before her. "Myrhil," he said again, a smile again gracing his young face, "leave Larhend's half of the room. I'll want to see how he will keep his quarters!"

"And what of my half?" she asked.

"If it is worthy of imitation, I will point to it and tell your brother that is what he should aspire to."

Boromir gave her a quick salute and wheeled his horse around, loping after Larhend. When they met up, they both spurred their mounts into a canter and were quickly lost in a cloud of summer plains dust.

Myrhil watched them until the cloud diminished and only those with an eagle eye could mark their progress. This she did not have, so she turned and ran back towards the house. She nearly collided with Laenilas on the porch, setting her mother to grappling with a suddenly precarious bowl of washed radishes.

"Slow down!" she scolded. As Myrhil bobbed a clumsy curtsy of apology and made to dash past her, she grabbed at her daughter's arm. "And just where do you think you are rushing off to? There is still garden work to be done."

"I'm going to clean my room," Myrhil said with undisguised satisfaction. "There will be no better in all of Minas Tirith when I'm done!"

Before Laenilas could further protest, Myrhil was gone, the boots clomping messily on the plank floor.

"Insane girl," Laenilas muttered, giving the abandoned garden a dour look. In baffled exasperation, she bit into a spicy radish and then shrugged.

"Oh, why are you talking to yourself?" she said. "One chore for that child is as good as another!"


End file.
